


untitled: morning, kitchen

by HarkerX



Series: The Yellow Notebook [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dom Hannibal Lecter, Dom/sub Undertones, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Kitchen Sex, M/M, No mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Will Graham, References to Knotting, Sub Will Graham, Will is Will, anal penetration, blindfold, mention of other characters, no murder on the menu, possible vegetables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 09:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarkerX/pseuds/HarkerX
Summary: Will wakes up late and eats the mirepoix. Hannibal is displeased.





	untitled: morning, kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Yellow notebook, and while they can be read out of order, these shorts are chronological.  
> They are AU, but assume you have seen through the end of S3 as they contain characters and references that might be spoilers.

 

When Will enters the kitchen there is coffee and there is blood. Hannibal wipes away the evidence and the cloth goes white to red.

“Bit early,” Will says, but it’s ten. By Hannibal standards it’s practically midnight. Hannibal makes a noise halfway between greeting and dismissal. It’s a place Will is used to, the precarious gap between Hannibal’s moods, just as Hannibal is used to his own.

Hannibal is in a sweater, the sleeves pushed up. A pair of pants that aren’t for company. For Hannibal a suit is armour, but his vests are not bullet proof. This is his Alpha in business casual.

Will hasn’t even put pants on. Today’s boxers are blue. There’s a healing line bisecting his chest. It may have also been a knife. Or a fingernail. Or a tooth.

Will doesn’t remember. There is this: the unending demand of Hannibal’s hands. The hours Will spends on his knees. He often comes out of heat worse than he went in.

It takes time to recover.

“That’s not breakfast.” Meat and bones and the small knife Hannibal is using to trim away fat, scrape away tissue. _Frenching_ , Hannibal once told him. It’s brutal, if it’s a kiss.

“Breakfast was an hour ago. We’re having guests for dinner,” Hannibal says, wiping the knife clean before he lifts the rack of lamb, investigating it. Wipes at a bit of fat with the pad of his thumb. Tilts the knife and pushes at the silver skin, peeling it back from bone.

Will pokes at a bowl of carrots, celery. His stomach rumbles. “Mirepoix?” At least there's no onions yet. 

Hannibal tilts his head in a nod. “It’s amazing what a man can learn when he stops eating three meals a day out of a cardboard box.”

“I fish,” Will reminds him, stealing a carrot. Then a bit of celery. It’s not Hannibal’s breakfast standard, but it’s not entirely bad.

Hannibal taps a finger. “In my prep bowl, it seems.”

“I’m in breakfast mode and you’ve skipped lunch. Who for dinner?” Maybe Alana, Abigail. Bedelia, but she might still be in Florence.

“Anthony,” Hannibal answers.

Will plucks another perfectly square carrot from the bowl. Even the carrots have sharp edges. So precise. So perfect. “Dimmond?” As if the man has never been discussed, as if Will doesn’t intimately know the man who occasionally comes to dinner. “The poet with the fluffy hair?”

“That is not the description he prefers, but yes.”

“What does he prefer? Something ostentatious, with added syllables and a reference to the wicked clouds of spring?”

“Suitably poetic,” Hannibal smiles.

They tease Anthony, both when he is here and when he is not here. “Is he staying for dessert?” Dessert. Hannibal is not the sort to lick whipped cream from unmentionable places. “We shall see,” Hannibal says.

“I’ve been a good boy,” Will says, blinking, chewing on another bit of carrot. In the months, the year they’ve been together, things have changed. They no longer treat each other as fragile, easily broken things. They are lovers now, and in some ways they are friends. And when Will falls into any pattern of self loathing, angry at his body, angry at the way it controls him, Hannibal reminds him of the weekend Will spent in Hannibal’s guest room, needing no one.

Once, Anthony stayed in the guest room until morning. There was Anthony, there was Will, there was Hannibal in his chair and a mid-morning conversation over coffee after Anthony had already gone.

There was admission. Telltale marks. The deep of Hannibal’s voice and the way his vowels sounded when Will closed his eyes.

There was the entry Hannibal watched him make in the Yellow notebook. A diary entry.

_Today, Anthony came for dinner._

There was blood on the collar of Will’s white t-shirt. Anthony was kind of enough not to stare, but he looked, and his expression was not one of fear, but interest. Hannibal likes to see his boy bleed.

“You are a terrible boy with your hands in my dishes, sleeping until all hours and walking around the house in your underwear like a teenager.”

“You like me in my underwear.” Will slowly reaches for the bowl again and this time Hannibal tries to slap his hand away. Will jerks back, laughing as he cradles the bowl to his chest. “I’m hungry.”

“Shall I tell Anthony you consumed his dinner while it was still raw?”

“The only thing Anthony wants to consume in this house is you,” Will says, even though it’s not exactly true.

Sometimes it’s this: Hannibal lets Will have his little lies, secrets that are not secrets because Hannibal has pushed at Will’s secrets with a fist. With a sigh and a moan and a scar, he has broken them open. Will swept up their remains, shards and such sharp pieces.

Will made an unbreakable promise, signed his name in blood and salt. With his open, begging mouth and the place on his neck that was made for his Alpha’s teeth.

_I will not lie to you._

But sometimes. Sometimes Hannibal lets Will cross his fingers behind his back and tell the smallest of untruths. Today’s untruth is that Will does not want to devour Anthony.

Because of course he does.

Hannibal turns the knife over in his fingers. Studies the bones, arranges the meat on a plain white platter. “Perhaps, after dinner, we will read your notebook together. Perhaps, in the space between dinner and dessert, I will ask Anthony read it aloud.”

Will swallows. Puts down the bowl. “You wouldn’t.”

Hannibal catches Will’s wrist, pinning it to the island. The bowl teeters, rocks and settles. It’s not always playful between them. Sometimes they are two rabid dogs in a ring fenced with barbed wire. Play, for them, often ends with Will on his back, on his knees. His cheek to the floor and Hannibal’s body, pinning him there. Ends in a puddle of spend and a low, plaintive wail.

Sometimes there is no safe word.

Sometimes they are puppies, chasing each other’s tails. Nipping and snarling and licking. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, they wrap around each other like cats.

Will wriggles. Pinches a bit of celery with his free hand and tosses it into his mouth. Hannibal lifts an eyebrow and snaps his fingers, pointing to a spot on the floor beside him. “If you wish to be in my kitchen, I will put you to work.”

It is this.

The straightening of Will’s spine. The uncurling of his own hand. Hannibal’s face is blank.

“I would be surprised if you required further instruction.”

He doesn’t. Hannibal has read the Black notebook. Will has read the notebook to Hannibal. He has transcribed the Black into the Yellow. He has read every entry while bent over Hannibal’s knees, with Hannibal’s hand inside him, coming under the weight of his own gasping words, pages marked wet with spit until the letters blurred. Ink becomes a flower, blooming. Will has blossomed.

And so, in his way, has Hannibal.

Hannibal remembers everything. Every word Will has written. Every admission. Every _maybe_ and every _yes, please_. And so Will slips around the corner of the island and pads in his socks to where Hannibal pointed. There’s a movement Hannibal makes when he wants Will to kneel and he has not yet made it. Has not yet opened his hand until his palm is flat, parallel with the floor and so Will stands there, waiting, as Hannibal turns and opens the drawer that holds his spare aprons.

“We’re cooking?”

“We’re in the kitchen,” Hannibal reminds him as he taps Will’s hip. “Hands behind your back.”

Will does as he’s asked.

Hannibal flicks the apron open, folds the top over and slips it around Will’s waist. He draws the ties back and around and loops them once.

Once in the centre of Will’s back.

Once around Will’s right wrist.

Once around Will’s left wrist.

He makes a knot.

Will closes his eyes.

The older man steps forward, his hand covering the knot, the place where Will is tied. He nudges Will into the edge of the island, into the cut of metal and taps Will once on his spine and then the base of his neck and Will bends at the hip, twisting his fingers into each other, reaching for the fluttering ends of the apron’s tie, resting the side of his face on the metal.

Obediently.

“I was considering a renovation, but this adds a reasonable amount of counter space.” Hannibal picks up the mirepoix and places the bowl in the centre of Will’s body, between his shoulder blades. “Do not move.”

Will closes his eyes. The bowl is an unexpected weight, heavy as Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal’s foot. Will curls his toes. Lifts his ass.

An Omega always presents and Hannibal drags a hand over Will’s thigh, tucking a thumb just under the hem of his shorts. Will turns his wrists but the narrow ties are tight, less comfortable than rope but there is also this:

How quickly his body responds.

Hannibal opens the fridge. There’s a brief moment in which Will wonders if there’s more carrots. Hannibal places the bowl on the marble. There’s a rush of water. The sound of a cupboard opening. Closing again. Will twists to look at Hannibal, who is folding a kitchen towel in thirds.

“Don’t,” Will says.

Hannibal places the cloth over his eyes anyway. Will tugs at the ties behind his back, but it’s useless.

“Open.”

For a moment Will is not sure which orifice. It does not matter. Hannibal has filled them all.

Hannibal, because Will clearly took too long, pushes his thumb into the hinge of Will’s jaw. The pain is immediate. Hs eyes water and he opens wide.

A grape he's tasted before. Norton. A grape whose flesh is the same colour inside as out. It is the purple of bruising and Will lets the fruit sit on his tongue until Hannibal leans over.

“Surely you know how to swallow?”

Will drags his cheek against the cold, hard steel. Slowly he chews and slowly he does as he’s told. Sweet on his tongue and the warmth between his legs. Blood and the thickening of his cock.

“Would you like to fuck him?” Hannibal asks, seemingly out of nowhere if Anthony weren’t coming for dinner.

There is this:

Will has never and will never fuck Hannibal. It is by design. Alpha. Omega. The knot. The bite. Will begging. Will’s cheek to the floor, Will’s spend on the hardwood.

Will begging to be used.

There are pages in the notebook. Hannibal’s name. An entry in the Black notebook on page thirteen. Unlucky number thirteen. Will wrote down Anthony’s name.

“Shall you order him to his knees?”

Will trembles.

He feels the small bowl tilt to the left. He stiffens, his breath shallow.

“I asked you a question, Will.”

“Yes.”

“Two questions, it would seem. So answer them both.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, even though all he sees is white. There's a wanting shift of his hips. His cock pushes against his boxers. “I want him on his knees.”

“Your cock inside him.”

Will nods, the blindfold slips. “Yes.”

Hannibal tucks the fabric, taking a moment to lightly stroke Will’s hair. “You wish to hear him beg.”

Will nods again. Feels Hannibal’s hand on his ass, pushing his boxers down. He wriggles slightly trying to get his cock out of the way, but he can’t without the use of his hands and then Hannibal fixes that small problem. “Fuck, yes.”

“And what if, by the time he arrives, you are so thoroughly used your body won’t know to respond? Even if I ask him to touch you? To open for you?”

“Hannibal.”

The man murmurs and slips his fingers between the crease of Will’s ass cheeks. Strokes a thumb over his opening. Will’s heat ended two days ago and he can’t remember how many times Hannibal mounted him. Knotted him. 

How many times Hannibal handed him the silver plug.

The dildo.

Sat in the chair in the corner of the room as Will rode his own hand, fucking himself on his slim, deft fingers until he soaked the bedding with slick and come.

Warmth slips down Will’s thighs.

He pushes into steel and lifts his arms. An inch. Half an inch. Presents himself for his Alpha. The bowl slips slightly to the right.

“Careful,” Hannibal says.

“Hannibal,” Will begs, his throat tight. Saliva drips from the corner of his mouth, pooling.

“Hrm,” Hannibal says and presses his thumb into Will, into the slick. “What do we say?”

“Please,” Will squirms. “Fuck me.”

There is this: the immediate need of Will’s body. The response of his Omega. The throbbing ache of the Alpha bite, the swelling of Will’s glands and the way the room already reeks of sex and slick and the wet of Will’s leaking, desperate cock.

“Do you remember if he was allergic to cucumbers or courgettes?” Hannibal says even as he slides a finger, then two, into Will’s needing hole. Presses deep enough to find Will’s prostate, the swelling nub and he gently touches. Massages. Will lets out a low, keening whine.

His hands are fists and Hannibal.

Fucking Hannibal.

Will pushes his hips back, twisting himself on Hannibal’s fingers.

“Stop.”

Will gasps and groans. “For fuck, Hannibal.”

“Watch your tone.”

Hannibal pulls his hand back. Will grunts in protest. Licks his lips. Breathes. Will recognizes the sound of the fridge opening, the rush of cold air. Another bowl is set down.

“I think courgettes.”

Another drawer is opened. The water turned on and off again.Then there’s the rhythmic sound of the blade against the cutting board. A metronome. A flash of silver and Will catches his own reflection through a gap in the blindfold. He shifts the edge of the island a secondary weapon, the way the sharp of it cuts into his cheek. He flexes his hands, careful of the bowl.

Hannibal is careful with his knives.

But still the warmth. The familiar build. They are each other, now. Whatever space Will came with. Whatever walls he erected are gone.

He ran. Drowned himself in whiskey and regret.

Returned.

Made promises to Hannibal. In return Hannibal has given him everything. In return, Will has let him take.

“Open.”

Another grape. Will draws the chilled fruit into his mouth and licks at Hannibal’s fingers. “It’s too bad really, courgettes would have been good with the lamb, and I hate for them to go to waste.”

“I’ll eat them for lunch,” Will says. Then there’s an unexpected plop, like toothpaste being pushed from a tub.

“Steady,” Hannibal says.

Will’s breath catches as Hannibal touches him, pulls at his ass, spreading his cheeks with one hand.

“Breathe,” Hannibal says.

Will does. It’s cold. Hard and cold and Hannibal slides it in, slowly. Will is all sparks, all yearning and then this front brain catches up with his hind brain.

_I hate for them to go to waste._

And oh, god.

Hannibal twists the object, _whatever_ it is and fuck if it’s a vegetable. The man moves it just enough, just enough the way he knows Will prefers, a specific angle that touches all of Will’s favourite parts.

“Hanni—” but then he can only groan.

“You’ve so many uses,” Hannibal says.

The toy fills him, the whatever it is fills him, and if it’s a goddamn zucchini, then, fuck. It’s the fucking best zucchini he’s ever met, settled there, an impossibly perfect weight.

Hannibal moves around him. Touches him, lightly. The back of his head, his shoulder. Twists the toy, fucks him until Will lifts and begs and begs and

“I—” _am going to come._

“Yes, Will, I am aware.”

“No, I mean, like—”

“No.” Hannibal holds onto the zucchini whatever the fuck and twists it, slightly.

Will seizes. His breath catches. He lifts his heels. The bowl slides. He tilts his chest, lifts his shoulder. Rights it. Settles it. His thighs are wet, dripping slick. Pre-come drips from his cock.

“Hannibal.”

The other man slaps the meat of Will’s ass. “How you are. Tied and welcoming. Shall I leave you here, trussed and open, sticky-thighed and begging. Close your eyes, Will. Would you know which man made you come?”

He would.

He is Omega and Hannibal Alpha but instead of agreement, he says. “No.”

Hannibal’s breath is fire. The man leans in, careful of the bowl and drags a wet tongue over Will’s neck. “Of course you wouldn’t. Just a begging whore with a begging hole.”

This is rare.

Hannibal’s tongue. Not on his skin, but as this. Perverted. Careless with words. He prefers Will a whore. But his whore. So now they are this, a product of the words Will wrote when he thought Hannibal wasn’t looking and the words Hannibal utters Will that assumed had no place in this house.

Once, they were tigers circling each other.

Now they race to find each other. They crash into each other.

Hannibal slips the blindfold off. Will’s breath ghosts the steel. Hannibal draws a heart in the milky white. Wipes it away.

Presses a palm to the side of Will’s head. It is a vice. He twists. The end of the toy brushes Will's prostate.  Hannibal twists it again, an urgent demand.

Will opens his mouth, shows his teeth down. Bites into Hannibal’s pinky and Hannibal whispers.

Quiet.

 _Yes_.

Permission.

Blood. Salt. Iron. The tremble starts in the back of his knees, chasing itself along his bones. The bowl rattles, steadied only by the cut of his shoulder and he swallows, hard.

“Go on,” Hannibal murmurs, even as he works the toy, and Will bucks once, sending his salted wet into the side of the island, a stream that flows and puddles and pools and the tip of his toes are wet with it.

Hannibal drives the toy deep. Will yowls and he bucks and the bowl.

The bowl slips. Will tilts to the left, lifting his arm as best he can but then Hannibal.

Hannibal wraps his hand around Will’s neck. The bowl knocks into his forearm, catches on the sharp of his elbow. He presses tiptoes into the floor. An impossible attempt at righting.

The bowl tumbles over, knocking into tile.

Shatters. Shards tap Will’s ankles, his calves. His boxers are somewhere at his knees.

Hannibal drags the toy away as he grabs at Will’s hair. Hauls him up and back, some ragdoll. Will screams as he’s knocked face-forward into the refrigerator, held there by the bar of Hannibal’s forearm, the weight of his Alpha. The violent ownership of his hand that’s now a hook, holding Will in place.

It is capture.

It is this:

The impossible moment in which Will stops breathing. In which there is nowhere for him to run.

Fabric.

The unmistakeable sound of a zipper, an urgent fumble and the soft drape of fabric down the back of his thighs and his calves.

“Breathe,” Hannibal says, and he removes his hand, his fingers. Leans his shoulder into the space between WIll’s shoulder blades as he spreads Will open.

Teeth find his shoulder.

He is impaled. Suddenly and almost without warning but this has all been warning if warning is the siren, is the unmistakeable roar that fills the inside of his mind as Hannibal takes him.

Brutally.

Without care.

The man is all teeth. Will cries out, a familiar burning low in his body but its too soon.

Hannibal tears into Will. Suddenly, so suddenly it’s almost unexpected, Hannibal pommels into Will, his weight lifting the fridge from its tracks.

There is warmth. The air is blood. Stars dance in his periphery.

There are bones and a knife sticky with fat.

Will pulls at the ties around his wrists. Presses his heel to the ground and bucks backwards but Hannibal.

Is strong.

And Will.

Hannibal presses into him. “I recommend you keep still.”

Will makes a grabbing motion with his hands and Hannibal wraps his own fingers in the tangle of ties, holding on as he moves. His cock opens Will, breaks Will open. Will has left more than fingerprints here, the wet of his own cock rubbing against the cold steel and he closes his eyes, swallowed up by the smell of Hannibal, of sex and sweat and still, the lingering tang of raw meat.

Flesh.

If Will opened his mouth, would Hannibal feed him?

“My beautiful boy,” Hannibal says in the curl of his hair and Will allows himself the smallest of smiles, quickly wiped away by a gasp, a yowl, as Hannibal comes in a jerking flurry, violent and sudden.

The man stills.

A moment.

Gives Will one moment to breathe before he pulls out, leaving behind a slippery trail of spend and slick that slides down the insides of Will’s thighs.

There is a kiss. Soft and thankful to Will’s shoulder. There are arms around him and a laugh and Will shakes his head. “Not very sanitary, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal drags rough fingers through Will’s hair. “I doubt it will take you long to clean up.”

Will lifts his hands, waves his tied wrists.

“You’ll have to figure that out yourself,” Hannibal says as he rights his trousers and Will.

Will grunts and there are tiny carrots everywhere. Bits of celery and broken glass.He glances to the island, around the bowls, the cutting board. The knife.

There are two zucchinis. There is no cucumber. Will looks at them for far, far too long but there are no telltale signs, but one is considerably larger than the other. He looks at Hannibal, but the man’s face is blank.

“Just have it cleaned up before I’m finished,” Hannibal says, and then he opens the fridge.

“Finished what?”

The man looks over his shoulder. “I believe you asked for breakfast?”

Will wrinkles his nose. Looks over Hannibal’s shoulder. “It’s weird, but I feel kind of full.”

Hannibal gives him the smallest of smiles and picks up the kitchen towel. “Just get to work.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
